Tuesday, October 16, 2012

stay away from the future. don't tell god your plans.

You should know by now that you can't have everything you want. You want a life of happiness? A roof over your head? A place to call your own and all that jazz?

There's a rumor going around that we have a vacation coming up. By vacation, I mean that week in which my other half is excused from work and the children possibly take a homeschooling break (depending on the time of year). I don't want to confirm or deny the existence of such an event. You see, beloved and I have what can only be described as a vacation curse. We also have an anniversary curse that tends to involve things like puking kids and complete emotional breakdowns over a piece of chicken, but I don't want to get into that. The vacation curse is infinitely worse because vacations last a whole week. Also, the vacation curse tends to involve things like ER visits, rare illnesses, statements like "Well, it sure is a good thing we didn't have our hearts set on going to Chattanooga", and other such nonsense.

I will focus for the sake of brevity only on our last vacation, which was in June; more specifically, it was centered around my birthday. Not because I am big on birthdays, but because a certain someone else is a sweet, sentimental fool of a darling. Anyway, said vacation did in fact involve a trip to the ER, a fever of 102, excruciating pain, a rash, and a subsequent diagnosis of roseola. Right about now, if you don't know me personally (why are you reading this? How did you get here?), you are probably thinking that we have a baby or a toddler. Which is a logical conclusion, but I am sorry to say that you are wrong, thank you for playing. We have two teenagers. So with that piece of information at your disposal, your next logical conclusion would be that one of the children was stricken with what is 99.9999999% of the time, a baby/toddler/small child's illness. And you would be correct, but only partially. One of the children did in fact end up with a bit of a fever and rash later in the week. But that child is not the one who spent their birthday sick. That would be ME. And for the record, I am not a baby/toddler/small child. I would tell you how old I am, but that revelation would have to be followed by about ten Bruce Lee crescent kicks in rapid succession, leaving you in utter agony, and hopefully dead. It doesn't even matter, what matters is that I was sick every month when I was a child, but apparently never contracted the most common childhood illness ever conceived by a fallen, sinful world. I had chicken pox and, according to some tests years ago, also appear to have suffered Mono at some point, but no roseola. Which I'd like to point out is a disease that is pretty harmless in kids but potentially fatal in adults. Do you see? VACATION CURSE.

Anyhoo, I could regale you with all manner of similar stories regarding our tanked vacations, but I don't want you to start feeling dreadfully sorry for us. And you would, if you have any shred of a beating heart. My point here is that we have stopped making plans during our vacations, and now by extension, any off-time. This past Saturday we were going to do something incredibly simple- go to DQ for a pumpkin pie blizzard. No prob, right? I am sorry to say that instead we spent the day 80+ miles from home attending the burial of my sweet one's dear grandfather. This shouldn't even come as a surprise, because 2012 has seen a record high of deaths both in and out of the family. Not to mention a metric ton of other assorted BS. The people who think that 2012 is the end of the world or whatever are probably not too far of the mark, because at our house, 2012 has found us in some kind of bizzaro-world where trips to DQ= being a pall bearer for your grandpa, and vacation= sick with potentially fatal kiddie disease. In 2012, Shrodinger's cat is not simultaneously alive and dead, but simultaneously being assimilated while killing Laura Palmer with Bill the Butcher's knife, and blowing the Borg collective to hell while wearing a bowler hat, eating stale poptarts, and saying HIS NAME IS ROBERT PAULSON, to inifinity.

So if there is a vacation to be had, we shan't speak of it. We will pretend we are going to Iceland in search of lamb-free hot dogs. We definitely will not be going for any walks, watching any X-Files, eating Zaxby's or Orange Leaf, or otherwise hibernating in hopes of recovering some of our lost sanity of this dreadful year.

  And then I'll be arrested and sent to jail and you'll live happily ever after with a friendly guardian, spending your time inventing things and reading books and sharpening your little monkey teeth, and bravery and nobility will prevail at last, and this wicked world will slowly but surely become a place of cheerful harmony, and everybody will be singing and dancing and giggling like the littlest elf! A happy ending! Is that what you had mind?

Bottom line, we're screwed.

Friday, October 5, 2012

merely a blip on an otherwise uninterrupted downward trajectory

I bet you're wondering where I've been for the last year and some odd months. Well, we went all the way to Milliways, and I came home looking like this:
I know you are dying to hear all about it, but we'll get to that some other time. There is something much more pressing that has brought me all the way back from the end of the universe, and that is the fact that Sick Boy is on the telly.

Wonderful, yes, but.... oh the terror. I know how this ends, Robert Smith knows how it ends, BOTH OF US KNEW HOW THE ENDING WOULD BE.
so it's all come back round to breaking apart again
 breaking apart like i'm made up of glass again
making it up behind my back again
holding my breath for the fear of sleep again
holding it up behind my head again cut in deep
to the heart of the bone again round and round
and round and it's coming apart again over and
over and over
Girl you know it's true, they will cancel this show and then I will be forced to go 6 different ways of both Malcolm McDowell and Christopher Walken batsh*t crazy on CBS.
Sad Face.